“You know who I mean,” Smith said, with that thin, satisfied smirk I remembered so well. “He has turned traitor. Gone over to the enemy.”

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

Nefret had told herself there was no reason to be apprehensive. She had Ramses’s word, and he would not break it. But because she was so intensely aware of the emotions he succeeded in concealing from almost everyone but her, she had sensed his growing restlessness and feelings of guilt at going on with his work while friends and kin were fighting and dying. He wouldn’t fight, but his unique skills could be of use without violating his pacifist principles, and there was one appeal he would find impossible to resist: danger to her or his parents or a friend. It was difficult to classify the enigmatic, eccentric individual who was Emerson’s half brother, but whether he was friend or foe – over the years he had been both – they were indebted to him.

Emerson’s sun-browned face was almost as expressionless as that of his son, and when he spoke, it was in a soft purring voice. “That’s a lie.”

Smith leaned forward. “Then prove it.”

“I thought it was Ramses you wanted,” said Emerson, in the same soft voice.

“It is. May I explain?”

“You had damned well better,” said Emerson. “Peabody, my dear, would you care for a whiskey and soda?”

Nefret had never been certain precisely how her mother-in-law felt about the man who had pursued her so ardently all those years; obviously she cared enough about him to resent the accusation. Her gray eyes had a hard, almost metallic shine.

“No,” she said. “Thank you. Mr. Smith, how did you find out?”

“Find out what?”

She was too clever to be tricked into an admission. “Whatever it is you know.”

Smith gave her a nod of grudging admiration. “If you are referring to my knowledge of the – er – relationship between you and the individual in question, I – uh – Please, Mrs. Emerson, won’t you let me offer you something to drink?”

“No. There were a good many people present the evening we ourselves learned of that relationship,” she went on thoughtfully. “Military persons. One of them overheard our conversation and reported it to you?”

“Only a few words of the conversation, but they were enough to arouse his curiosity. Eventually the word got back to me, and aroused my curiosity. It took my associate in England a while to find the proof – birth and death certificates, records of certain financial transactions – you know the procedure. I haven’t told anyone else, Mrs. Emerson.”

“No, you hoard information like coins, paying it out only when you can gain something” was the furious response. “Do not expect thanks for your discretion from us.”

“Never mind, Mother,” Ramses said. “That isn’t the issue now. He’s won the first round. Perhaps we should let him explain further.”

It was a damning story. A few weeks earlier, a man calling himself Ismail Pasha had appeared in Constantinople. The word soon spread among the faithful: he had been an infidel, a high-ranking member of the British Secret Service, who had come over to the true religion and the right cause. He had been seen in public with German officers and also with Enver and the other members of the ruling triumvirate, richly dressed and clanking with jewels. He had prayed at the mosques, and on at least two occasions he had addressed the crowd with an eloquence that brought them to their knees. For surely no one could be so familiar with the words of the Prophet unless he himself was a holy man!

Shortly thereafter, one of the local agents in British pay was caught and executed. It was pure luck that the others in the group got away. Sethos was one of the few who knew of that particular network; he had been sent to Constantinople to meet with its members.

“That isn’t proof of anything,” Emerson declared.

“No,” Smith agreed. “However, he has not been heard from since. Attempts to contact him through the usual channels have received no response. His assumed name is interesting, too, don’t you think?”

“Ismail is a very common name,” Emerson said.

“The name of the son of Abraham by his handmaiden Hagar, who was cast out into the wilderness, lest he challenge the position of Abraham’s legitimate son,” Smith said, his thin lips curving in a cynical smile. “ ‘His hand will be against every man and every man’s hand will be against him.’ ”

“I believe I am better acquainted with Holy Writ than you,” Nefret’s mother-in-law said with a sniff. “God saved Ismael and blessed him and promised to make him – er – fruitful.”

“Confound it, Peabody, will you stop talking about the Bible?” Emerson was trying not to shout; the words squeezed between his lips like rumbles of distant thunder. “Prove it, you say. How?”

“That should be obvious.” Smith knew he had won. He leaned back in his chair. “Ismail Pasha is now in Gaza. Find him. You will know if he is the man we believe him to be – or that he is not. If he is that man, and you can bring back evidence that he is a prisoner or under duress, we will take steps to free him – unless you can do the job yourself.”

“That’s rather a tall order,” said Emerson. “Even for us.”

“You mistook my meaning, Professor. That’s the trouble with English, it is too imprecise about pronouns.”

“So,” said Emerson, after a long moment. “You want Ramses to go after the fellow. Alone.”

“It’s the only way, Professor. You surely don’t suppose that the four of you could cross enemy lines in disguise? Individually you are only too recognizable; as a group you are unmistakable. It’s a job for one man, and there is only one man who can maintain a convincing disguise long enough to do the job.”

They were all looking at Ramses, waiting for him to speak; Emerson caught himself on the verge of a heated reply and remained silent, possibly because his wife had administered an admonitory kick under the table. Ramses turned his head and met Nefret’s eyes.

They had been over this subject many times, with Nefret continuing to demand promises and reassurances and Ramses increasingly resentful of her refusal to accept his given word. There was no need for speech now; she knew what he wanted to do, what he felt he must do, and she knew that the decision was hers.

She had the means to hold him. A few sentences, a few words… She released her grip on his hand. Her fingers had left white marks.

“I’ve always felt that Ismail was unfairly treated,” she said, shaping the words with care so her voice wouldn’t tremble. “God won’t take a hand this time, so… so someone else must.”

PART TWO. Gateway toGaza

9

We arrived in Cairo on a misty gray morning. The city was swathed in fog and there was not a breath of air stirring. The feeling of oppression was not solely physical. We had had to leave our friends to cope with Jumana’s grief and Cyrus’s frustration – for that enigmatic clue of Jamil’s was driving him to distraction. I had made him promise on his solemn oath that he would not go wandering round the wilderness looking for Jamil’s tomb. He had given his word; but his hands were behind his back and I suspected he had his fingers crossed. Although Katherine did not reproach me, I knew she wondered how we could abandon her at such a time.

Emerson had pointed out that I need not abandon her. Not only was there no need for me to go to Cairo, my presence there would add unnecessary difficulties to an already difficult situation. The summons had been for -

“For Ramses,” I said, cutting into his tirade with the skill of long experience. “You weren’t asked either.”

“If you think,” Emerson announced loudly, “that I am going to let the boy go off alone to face that pack of wolves from the War Office -”